


Fighting Words

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 20:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Finarfin was really hoping they could last a little longer without having another kinslaying, but it looks like his odds of that have just gotten substantially worse.





	Fighting Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tehhumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehhumi/gifts).

> Tehhumi requested: 9. I Was Disappointed with My Eulogy, 33. Feanor and Finarfin, and 44. Humor! 
> 
> I still don't own the Silmarillion.

There were a lot of things Finarfin wasn’t sure how to discuss with his newly returned half-brother. Some of them, like the kingship, he was gritting his teeth about and getting on with anyway because he didn’t exactly have much choice.

Others, he had hoped to avoid for a while longer.

It seemed hope had decided to betray him once again.

Feanor frowned and tilted his head to better catch the faint notes drifting up to the balcony from the queen’s gardens below. “Those notes sound familiar.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Finarfin said hastily. “Why don’t we head back inside? I think I saw - “

Feanor held up a hand for silence, and Finarfin subsided into quiet despair.

Surely there had to be something he could do. Something he could throw off the balcony to hit the singer with, maybe. Anything to make them stop.

Unfortunately, the only things readily at hand to throw off the balcony consisted of Feanor and himself. Both options were looking increasingly appealing.

“That’s one of the laments Maglor wrote for me,” Feanor said slowly. “The one he used to rally the people.”

Finarfin was momentarily distracted from plotting a dive off the balcony by a sudden realization. “How did you recognize it? I mean, seeing as it was written - Well - “

“I overheard Caranthir humming it, and I wanted to know what it was,” Feanor said impatiently. The singing was getting louder, and Feanor’s frown was deepening. “The words are wrong.”

It really was a terribly catchy tune. A horribly, lethally, blood feud inspiringly, catchy tune.

And it was still getting louder.

_“Hey, hey, it’s off to the boats now,_

_Someone stole our best nightlight,_

_So we can’t go home!_

_Hey, hey, the king’s burning up now,_

_If we use him as a nightlight,_

_Can we finally go home?”_

Finally, far too late, the singer’s voice started to fade.

Feanor’s face went terrifyingly blank. 

They were all going to die. Again.

“Someone turned the song into a parody.”

Finarfin tried very hard not to wince.

It was too late for silencing the singer to mean anything, but the edge of the balcony was still looking increasingly tempting.

“Someone turned the song into a parody that doesn’t even scan properly.”

Finarfin gaped. “That’s your biggest problem with it?”

“If you’re going to make a parody of a thing, you ought to do it properly,” Feanor insisted. “And that goes double for this. If they insist on making a mockery of a masterpiece, they should at least aspire to matching it in technical skill. This is just terrible.”

“Right,” Finarfin said faintly. “As long as that’s settled, then.”


End file.
